Malapropos
by Sabrynth
Summary: Benson tried - and failed - to end his life. Now he has to deal with the aftermath. His family, the Park employees, his eccentric shrink, and his conscience aren't exactly helping, either. - Dark. Possible slash.
1. Prologue

_**[Malapropos]**_

_**Disclaimer**__: I do not own Regular Show, the characters and ideas of RS are the intellectual property of JG Quintel. The story itself, however, is mine and mine alone. _

_**Warning**__: Mature Themes, dark, and a bit angst-y ... You've been warned._

_Enjoy..._

Benson laughed.

It was a dark, roaring chortle, that caused his chassis to shake and the gumballs in his skull to rattle. He brought up his metallic limbs to his chest and held his sides. The slick cherry-red paint of his body, glinting in the harsh sunlight. He wheezed as the gears in his framework - for one moment- stopped. His sombre black eyes flew open. All at once, a myriad of memories, all without any true emotion behind them, flashed across his mind - as a perverse sort of torture. A clear, viscous liquid threatened to leak from his eye sockets, the way tears would. He looked down from the rooftop of his apartment, gauging the distance - probably not enough to kill me, he mused with a detached indifference.

He shuffled closer, the tips of his feet hanging off of the edge. A stiff, awkward breeze blew, the kind that made one stop whatever they were doing to acknowledge it. Very much like a child screaming for attention. He glanced up, shielding his eyes from the near-blinding sunlight. The sky was a blue so pure and concentrated that he was certain his eyes were failing him. He shifted his gaze down to the sidewalk. A handful - from this height he really did feel they could all fit in his palm - of people walked to and fro, their collective conscience not at all alerted to him. A broken man on the brink.

How pathetic.

That one word seemed to sum up his entire existence. His life had once been full of excitement, he'd been an undefeated table hockey master, he'd finally found the love of his life, Veronica - a woman whose very name caused his chest to ache in a terrible, cliche, empty sort of way - and a best friend in the form of an apprentice ... But Dave's tragic end had changed all of it. Now he was a Park Manager, a job so ridiculously lame that being a garbage man seemed like a better career option. He lived in a decidedly crappy apartment with only himself and a temperamental calico cat by the name of Jonesy. He had no romantic relationships to speak of and a crippling case of uncontainable, uncontrollable anger. It was safe to say that his life sucked.

The one shining beacon in his life - in the form of a now unrequited love - had finally, without showing much remorse, rejected him. If that wasn't bad enough, someone else, a person who had never had much inclination towards anything, had decided to unveil his feelings at such a wrong, raw time.

Benson laughed.

A variable cacophony of guffaws, chuckles and giggles.

And with a final, terrible snicker he stepped.

Off of the roof of his apartment building and onto the concrete below.

Landing on the pavement with a sharp crack, the near unbreakable glass of his dome - shattered. Dozens of purple gumballs rolling into the street, motor oil pooling around the husk of the broken - now literally and metaphorically - man. People crowded and gasped, as people do. They were shocked, and a very sick part of them excited, at this display of self-hatred so pure and malapropos. They acted the way they felt they should, with feigned pity and remorse. No one here really knew him, maybe a few remembered seeing him at the Park, but few actually knew him on a personal level - much less had ever spoken to him.

There he lay, face down and most certainly dead.

The crowd heard a laugh.

_**A/N: **__Okay, there it is... Malapropos. _

_If you guys would review, that would be spectacular. Thanks for reading! _

_-Sabrynth_


	2. The Lateness Of The Hour

**_[Malapropos]_**

**_Disclaimer_**_: I do not own Regular Show, the characters and ideas of RS are the intellectual property of JG Quintel. The story itself, however, is mine and mine alone._

**_Warning_**_: Mature Themes, dark, and a bit angsty. Future pairings, which may or may not be slash... You've been warned._

_Enjoy..._

_Chapter One_:_ The Lateness Of The Hour_

Benson woke up.

He blinked, and realized that he had been right in his doubting the fall would kill him. The second thing he realized was that his head hurt, in an abhorrent, ache-y sort of way. Hands shaking, he brought the extremities to his glass dome, feeling for cracks - the last thing he remembered was hearing the brilliant, glittery shattering of his own skull. A sardonic and overall inappropriate smile tugged at his lips. He shifted, and at once regretted it - his entire front side throbbed with pain. Throbbed being figurative, since he was, in fact, mostly metal, so his body did not 'throb' or move quite the same way an animal's would. But nonetheless, his chassis throbbed with pain. He blinked back the pseudo-tears that threatened to leak and took in his surroundings.

He was in a hospital.

That seems redundant, he scoffed in the darkest part of his mind. The room was white, as most hospitals are, and bare - yet another glaring similarity in hospital interior design, it seemed. The fluorescent lights flickered, as they would in a bad slasher movie, casting a sick, yellow glow over the expanse. There weren't any windows in his room, which seemed odd. Are they keeping me in the basement, he questioned, then shrugged - wincing - he didn't really care.

A nurse came in, all indifference and terrible bedside manner. Seeing that the automaton was very much awake, she gasped. Benson thought she was incredibly stupid. His ... _people_ either could be repaired - and lived - or they couldn't and they died. They did not fall into comas for four years and wake up to realize that they were no longer pregnant and someone had stolen their baby. He held back a sarcastic smirk.

"Oh! You're awake!" Well, that was obvious. "I'll be right back, I must go alert the doctor." She didn't even attempt to smile as she rushed out into the antiseptic doused hall. Wasn't it procedure to at least 'check his vitals' or something equally overused in dramas about hospitals? This question plagued his mind until the nurse came back in, with a tired looking doctor in tow. Which was a nice way of saying that he looked like shit.

"I'm your doctor, my name's Doctor August." His voice was a high tenor, barely qualifying in what could be considered a 'male' voice. He snatched Benson's chart from the suspiciously aloof nurse, earning a look of animosity from the woman. He flipped through it, as doctors do, nodding every so often. I wonder if that's something they teach you in medical school, Benson mused.

The man, so symbolically clad in bright white, made a sort of motherly noise - one to announce his own discomfort and displeasure. A sharp intake of air, before a: "Mr. Benson," The doctor paused in a dramatic, and somewhat facetious, manner.

"You're very lucky to be alive," He continued. No, Benson thought in an acidic voice, I'm not. "We managed to repair your..." A hesitation - an unsure hesitation - the sort of hesitation one takes when describing another's ethnicity. "chassis." The healer breathed, and the nurse beside him - who had seemed to find the hem of her scrubs fascinating - stilled her hands, both attempting to gauge the automaton's reaction.

When the machine made no noise - not even one of annoyance, he resumed.

"We replaced your, ah, dome. However, we could not find all of your gumballs ..." The good doctor looked as though he felt the topic was a bit too personal. "So you will be experiencing some rather unpleasant headaches until we find a donor." He finished.

Benson blinked.

What am I supposed to say, he questioned himself, 'Thanks for saving me, even though I made it obvious that I was, indeed, trying to kill myself. Really, thanks a whole fucking lot'? That would probably not go over well, he doubted that these health 'professionals' would be as easy to persuade as Mordecai and Rigby. Settling on silence, for fear of releasing a rant of Glenn Beck-ian proportions, he looked at the doctor and his nurse.

None in the room quite knew what to say, an awkward tension hung in the air. Like a very dull knife cutting through a tough steak, the tension was severed when the large metal-plated door opened with an audible creak. It was yet another nurse.

"Uh, excuse me? The patient has visitors..." Benson's interest peaked at this - then, in an instant, dissolved into an uneasy, birds-in-your-stomach feeling.

Visitors. How awful. All at once Benson felt embarrassment, resentment, and anguish. The anguish being that the fall didn't end him like he had hoped. If he had been a flesh and blood human being he would have blushed in humiliation, but he was not. He was all motor oil, metals and glass.

His mind entertained every terrible, gut-wrenching scenario that could result from these visitors. A cold chill went through his system as an old fear resurfaced. In a desperate manoeuvre to quell this queasy notion he blurted out:

"You didn't call my parents, did you?" He almost didn't recognize his own voice. It sounded weak and raspy. He shook his head, he didn't care.

To say that the doctor looked surprised would be an understatement. He made an odd noise; whether it was at his own stupidity, Benson didn't know. At once, he regretted his words. It was very clear that the medical professional had not contacted his ... guardians. But what had he done?

He had told them about his fucking parents, that's what he'd done.

A variable shit-storm clouded his head as he internally screamed every self-depreciating insult he could think of at himself.

If they called his parents, which seemed all too likely, that would mean them visiting him. With his bitch of a sister in tow. Benson drew his legs - which oddly enough did not seem to hurt - up to his chest and locked his arms around the thin limbs before resting his forehead against his knees.

He let out a shaky breath. This could not be happening.

Again, another disturbing cognizance crossed his mind. One that he had been daft to overlook: work. His job. His employees. His _boss. _Oh, no, this can't be happening, Benson wanted to sob, why couldn't they have just let me die? Maellard would no doubt be a bastard about the whole thing, maybe even fire him. These harsh realities hit him, making his already physically aching chest hollow. More hollow than it already was.

Benson squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that this was all just some test. Some sick, twisted, perverse little test.

At some point during all of this, the doctor and the nurse duo had left him to his own devices.

Benson cringed.

His visitors would be here soon.

He wanted to pull a 'Bill From Accounting' manoeuvre, but the lack of windows hindered this significantly. He looked for another door, eyes clawing, ripping apart the room - just in case he had missed something. The room was as bare as it had been before.

He choked back a sob.

Innumerable emotions hit him at once, creating what he felt was something akin to a black hole in his chest and head. He felt as though he would burst. His bubblegum pink tongue flicked out, wetting his thin, metallic lips. Not much could be accomplished by this nervous gesture - he knew that fact very well - but it seemed like the thing to do.

He heard footfalls.

Scampering little pitter-patters on the linoleum, rhythmic skipping, squeaky, expensive-sounding leather shoes, and light, almost inaudible padding that only a bird could make. He swallowed, his tongue thick, heavy and now very, very dry. He un-tensed his body, not wanting his friends - if he could even call them that - to see him like this. Stressed to the max, he relaxed his arms, palms flat on the rough fabric of the bed.

He resisted the urge to crawl under the bed as the door swung open with an all-too-audible creak. They shuffled in, all sympathy and embarrassment. What were you supposed to say to someone who failed to end their own life? Benson felt pseudo-tears line his eyes, he wished for a calamity - anything to disrupt this awkward stillness.

There they were. Pops, Skips, Mordecai and Rigby. Muscle Man and Hi-Five Ghost predictably absent. If only I cared, Benson thought with a sarcastic edge. Pops looked absolutely miserable - his eyes were red, like he'd been crying. Guilt welled up in his chest, the tears that had threatened to spill over leaked. Panicked, he yawned, and wiped his eyes.

He looked back at them and gave a timid smile. What am I supposed to do, he beseeched, hoping for an answer that was not there. His mind raced with questions, how am I supposed to act, what am I supposed to tell them, what the fuck do I _do_?

The sound of scampering brought him to focus, then the sensation of being punched.

"What the H, man?!" Rigby screamed at him, his small fists pounded his left arm - at some point the raccoon had scrambled on the bed. He looked at the small mammal, like Pops, it was very clear that the rascal was distraught. He almost felt something akin to concern before he was hit again. Benson would say that Rigby's blows felt like those of a child, but frankly, that would be an insult to children.

"Rigby!" He heard the distinctive voice of the avian yell, "Get the F off of him! Seriously, dude!" Mordecai wrapped his arms around his best friend and yanked him off of the bed, Rigby made an angry noise and thrashed in place, causing the duo to fall backwards and land with a thud.

Skips glared at them, his mouth set in a deeper frown than usual. Benson thought he saw the yeti's eyes narrow at Mordecai's now risen form.

"Oh, Benson!" Pops' lilting voice called, as the gentleman moved forward to the bed. He stopped at the edge. "I'm ecstatic that you survived your fall!"

Benson's eye twitched.

Survived my _fall_, he thought. Cynicism metaphorically dripping from every word. The naïve man's thin arms enclosed around the automaton. The machine stiffened, but accepted it. I owe him that much, he intoned in a dismal voice. He mouth transformed into a weak smile, directed at Pops.

Skips observed him with those scary, broody eyes of his. Benson felt as though the yeti could see into him, and that was most likely true - with all those mystical powers he had stashed away. The guy's mind _was_ a steel trap, after all. The machine shifted, and settled his eyes on the bed-sheets, which were becoming more and more appealing.

Doctor August appeared with Nurse #2. Benson thanked every god he could think of. It was at that moment, that he realized he had not spoken - at all. How rude.

"Thank you," His voice was quiet and dry-sounding. "thank you for coming. You..." He paused, and took a ragged breath. "You didn't have to come."

Eyes that had been fixed on the wall in front of him flickered up to each of their faces. They all looked, for lack of a better word, concerned. Brows knit, eyes dark. Even Rigby, who he had previously thought to possess no feelings other than childish anger, looked crestfallen. His throat felt tight with some fierce emotion he couldn't describe.

"Due to the lateness of the hour, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Nurse #2 said, in such a way that it sounded like, "I don't care if you stay or not, but my boss is here, so piss off."

Pops nodded and gave Benson a small wave. "I will come visit tomorrow." There were no frills on his sentence. He must be more upset than I thought, he speculated. Mordecai mumbled something that involved the word 'frig', not meeting his eyes. Rigby seemed conflicted, eyes shifting between his boss and best friend. Benson could practically hear the raccoon thinking.

"Yeah, bye, Benson." The mammal said.

Skips scrutinized him, but remained silent. The nurse seeing that the group's farewells were finished, ushered them out of the room. When the big door swung shut, Doctor August spoke.

"You may have figured it out by now, but due to the nature of your _incident_," The good doctor seemed to have become a great deal more confident. "you _will_ be required to see a psychiatrist and attend group therapy. For how long depends on your progress." He finished with an admirable flourish.

Benson nodded.

There wasn't much he could do about it now.

"Your psychiatrist will be here in a moment." The healer said, which confused Benson immensely.

"Didn't the nurse just say it was late...?" He rasped. The doctor didn't answer, but acknowledged his inquiry with a slight tilt of his head.

At that moment the door swung open, revealing a nervous-looking woman and an anthropomorphic, white owl.

_**A/N**__: The first actual chapter of Malapropos! I decided to continue thanks to the support of my three lovely reviewers: FANGIRL4LIFE Till I die, Ultrablastic123, and FurFic-er1600; you guys rock! I apologize if the tenses were weird, not sure what happened there. I actually have a plot -le gasp!- for this thing now. The ending wasn't a cliffhanger, nor do I think anyone thinks that, but it seemed like a good place to stop. Whatever. The idea that gumball machines experience headaches when they lose gumballs belongs to DemiHuman123, I think. I didn't mean to rip-off. However the whole 'donor' thing is mine. _

_I will [hopefully] update every week, but I can't promise anything. School has started back up, and I, being the intelligent person that I am, decided to write a fic during such a hectic period. -.-' _

_Reviews inspire me to keep writing so... review! Thanks for reading!_

_-Sabrynth_


	3. Where Is My Mind?

**_[Malapropos]_**

**_Disclaimer_**_: I do not own Regular Show, the characters and ideas of RS are the intellectual property of JG Quintel. The story itself, however, is mine and mine alone._

**_Warning_**_: Mature Themes, dark, and a bit angsty. Future pairings, which may or may not be slash... You've been warned._

_Enjoy..._

Chapter Two: Where Is My Mind?

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Benson." The owl's voice was dark and syrupy. The words he spoke metaphorically dripped from his beak, his voice itself a low baritone - the kind that made one's chest vibrate in recognition of such a powerful tone. His eyes were predatory, grey and made one feel as if he were looking through them - not really seeing them - or maybe seeing everything.

The woman beside him had white hair, a complexion that would make paper jealous and peculiar red eyes. She greeted the automaton in a quiet 'hello' before gripping a dark blue clipboard to her chest. The owl gave what Benson assumed to be a smile before continuing.

"I am Absolemn Under, and this is my secretary, Catherine."

Benson thought Absolemn Under was a strange and pretentious name. The name of someone whose parents thought they were too good, too refined for their child to have a normal name. His middle name is probably Augustus, the machine scoffed to himself.

He didn't know what to say, but managed a: "Hello, Mister Under, Catherine." as he nodded.

Absolemn strode over to him with what could only be described as 'grace.' His white-feathered wings enclosed around Benson's hand. "My, my. So troubled. I'm going to guess... Family problems or perhaps issue with your mate?" The way the avian said 'mate' made Benson want to swoon, then vomit. It was an odd combination.

The automaton let the bird's question sink in. How had he known about his problems with family? Then again, that was probably just a guess. Lots of people had trouble with their family, right? Right.

"Uh... Yeah, I suppose."

The owl nodded, as if he knew the answer already, but wanted to see how Benson would react.

"Well, we'll get into that tomorrow." Turning to August, who had been staring with tired intent, he inquired, "He will be released tomorrow?" Though, it sounded distinctly like: "He _will _be released tomorrow." The doctor made a noise that sounded like a yes.

"Brilliant. Until we meet again, Benson. Adieu." Absolemn gave a small bow, feathers falling away in a soft, serene fluidity as he pulled back. He gave another almost-smile and left, with Catherine following at his heels.

Benson let out a breath that he wasn't aware he was holding in.

"He might seem eccentric, but he really does admirable work." August told him, stifling a yawn. "Well, I'm leaving. Please try to get some sleep, nurses will check on you periodically." With that he left, just as he said he would, shutting off the lights.

It was dark, with only the faint blue-green glow of the machinery to illuminate the room. He fell back against his pillow, still hoping that this was a dream. An elaborate, awkward, terrible, wonderful dream.

It wasn't.

_**A/N**__: _

_Thanks for reading!_

_-Sabrynth_


	4. Float On

**_[Malapropos]_**

**_Disclaimer_**_: I do not own Regular Show, the characters and ideas of RS are the intellectual property of JG Quintel. The story itself, however, is mine and mine alone._

**_Warning_**_: Mature Themes, dark, and a bit angsty. Future pairings, which may or may not be slash... You've been warned._

_Enjoy..._

_Chapter Three__: Float On_

Early in the morning - too early - a fattish nurse waddled in, Benson could hear her breathing.

Mouth-breather, he thought with a tone normally reserved for restaurant employees who got his order wrong.

"You're awake." She stated, in the same way one would say, 'it's sunny outside.' Much too cheery for Benson's tastes. She smiled in a warm, too friendly way, her cheeks dimpling.

Benson frowned.

"Did you sleep alright, hun?" The automaton stiffened, then sneered.

"Just fucking peachy, _hun_." Mal-contempt dripped from his words. The nurse gasped, an unpleasant frown pulling at her features. She clasped her chubby hands together, rocking back on her heels - it was clear that she didn't know what to do with this.

He relaxed his posture, and shook his head.

"I'm sorry." He said. It was almost genuine.

The woman's dull eyes softened.

"I read your chart..." She trailed off when she saw the same tense, angry posture as before. She nodded, mostly to herself and began to do her fucking job.

Benson sighed.

"What time is it?" He rasped, voice still dry, throat parched. "Can I have some water?" He added. Though, what he really needed was some motor oil. The nurse looked startled at his soft voice and nodded, mousey brown hair shaking in time.

"Of course." She looked as if she really wanted to add a 'dear' to the end of that. Minutes later she returned, handing the automaton a Styrofoam cup.

"It's six forty-three."

"Thanks." His tone was short and clipped. Bringing the cup to his mouth, he drank. It did not have a taste - only the sensation of cold running down to the hydraulics tank that lay in the center of his machinery. He tipped it back further, consuming everything.

It did not help his voice.

He knew that it wouldn't, but a small part of him wished he were as simple as the human in front of him.

Benson sighed.

"When do I get to leave...?"

The nurse blinked at him.

"I, uh, don't know. I can page August, if you like."

The gumball machine nodded at this, letting the corners of his mouth curl into a half-smile.

He began to dwell on his mortality - or lack thereof. Benson could live forever as long as his parts were regularly replaced. By the time I see the end of forever, he mused, I will be a completely different machine.

This was very true, only his conscience would remain.

This scared him - this small thought that wriggled through his mind, this small thought that made the gears inside him quake and rattle and miss the teeth of the partner they were eternally bound to. He shivered.

"Are you cold?" The nurse asked in a polite tone. Why are you still here, he mentally asked her. His expression was blank. She nodded after a minute of intense staring, waddling her way out of the room.

She left Benson to his thoughts.

Hours later, and true to his word, Pops came - with his decrepit father in tow.

"Greetings, Benson!" The old man lilted. His father inclined his head in a slight, almost undetectable way, saying nothing.

"Hi, Pops. Mister Maellard." The automaton's tone was respectful and strained - as it always was with the patriarch. His hands pulled the scratchy blanket closer, nervousness getting the better of him.

"Bean-Teen," Damn that geezer for getting my name wrong, Benson fumed inwardly. "due to the circumstances of your _incident_," The machine panicked. Here it comes - I'm fired for sure, he speculated. "I am, ah, _allowing _you to take some time off and get your life in order."

Benson froze.

"What...?" His voice was quiet and somehow pleading. The businessman's ever-present frown deepened.

"I don't think you want me to have to repeat myself, Ball Bucket." The lollipop man growled. Pops gasped, and put a hand on his father's arm.

"Papa, you shouldn't be cruel to Benson in his fragile state." His voice was stern - a rarity for the naïve man.  
Maellard's eyes widened for a moment, then returned to their normal, beady size. He cleared his throat and continued.

"While you are _away_, Skips will take your place - I'm sure he's competent enough." Is what the tycoon said, but Benson heard a distinct, "He can't be any worse than you."

Benson made a noise of understanding, his mind too shocked to let him form coherent words.

With that they left, Pops managing a good-bye before his father pushed him out of the room. Leaving him to wallow in self-pity.

The next few days blurred by, consisting of frequent check-ups from the pudgy nurse and visits from Absolemn Under. Neither had been particularly noteworthy and Benson found himself growing angrier with each day that passed.

The automaton stood outside his apartment, 1635.

He didn't quite remember how or when he got there - or even how long he had stood there - but he felt as if he had been there his whole life. It was a peculiar feeling.

He gripped his hand around the key and sighed. Sliding the key into its place, he turned it, grabbed the knob, and opened the door.

Benson was surprised to see that it looked exactly the same as he had left it. Beige walls, light, wood flooring, very few pictures, and a hideous green couch.

He felt a distinct chomp around his ankle. Peering down, he saw the multi-coloured fur-ball attempting to gnaw his foot off. The machine smiled and stooped to pick up the cat.

Jonesy blinked at him, meowing with trademark disdain.

"Aw, Jonesy." Benson said with affection as he nuzzled the cat - earning a pleased purr from the feline. Placing Jonesy on the top of his dome, he began inspecting his apartment, grinning as she curled around his hat.

"Did Fredrickson feed you?"

"Meow."

"I'll take that as a yes." Benson smiled - then rolled his eyes at the sound of the phone ringing.

"Benson." He answered.

"Hello, sir. This is Catherine, Under's secretary."

"Yeah?"

"I would like to inform you that, for your safety, I will be moving in next door and periodically checking up on you." Next door? That was Aubrey's apartment.

Aubrey.

She was such a lovely girl, Benson thought, grimacing at the memory of their brief romance - if one could call it that.

"Yeah. Okay." His tone was clipped, thoroughly pissed off.

"It is settled." The line went dead.

_**A/N**__: Huzzah, another chapter of Malapropos is complete! I'd like to thank my lovely reviewers, you know who you are C: This update wasn't as long as I wanted it to be, but it seemed like a good place to leave off. Jonesy is based off of my cat, Houdini, who likes to sit on my shoulder and/or head. She likes to pretend she's a parrot. _

_Reviews keep me happy and therefore inspire me to write this thing faster. I would also enjoy some constructive criticism Pleasey please? Thanks for reading!_

_-Sabrynth_


	5. The Bad in Each Other

**_[Malapropos]_**

**_Disclaimer_**_: I do not own Regular Show, the characters and ideas of RS are the intellectual property of JG Quintel. The story itself, however, is mine and mine alone._

**_Warning_**_: Mature Themes, dark, and a bit angsty. Future pairings, which may or may not be slash... You've been warned._

_Enjoy..._

_Chapter Three: The Bad in Each Other_

The evening was humid and much too warm. Benson could feel a sheen of condensation on his dome. He groaned - feeling frustrated and nervous. Tonight's the night, he thought. Group Therapy Session #1. He did not want this. To see the sad idiots who had tried and failed to end their life. They'd be all weepy and clingy and understanding.

_You could skip_, a voice told him. The automaton shook his head in response. If I skip, I won't be able to go back to my job, he sighed._ You hate that_ _job_, his conscience replied - at least, Benson _thought_it was his conscience. The machine did not argue. Because the voice was right.

He clasped his hands together, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. He looked up at the building.

It was … a building. There was not anything special about it. Red brick, beige door, a huge poster-board advertising upcoming community events. Benson pulled the door open, expecting the group to be sitting there, anxiously awaiting his arrival. When has that ever happened, the machine rolled his eyes at himself.

"Second floor, first door on the right." He said to himself, climbing the stairs. I wonder why it's so dim in here, Benson was being particularly observant tonight. He found the door he was looking for and gripped the handle - turning it in a slow, stalling manner.

They were seated in a circle, just as he had imagined. He didn't recognize most of the faces. Sure, he had seen some on the street or at the Park, but he'd never spoken to any of them.

It was disquieting.

These people, ten in all, looked so normal. Average, status-quo people. Ones that you wouldn't expect. These people were there because, they too, had failed at offing themselves. Wow, Benson gaped.

Only a few had turned to look at him, the rest politely continued their conversations - pretending they did not see him.

Benson was admiring the floorboards when a sweet-sounding male voice sounded, "Benson?"

It wasn't every day that the gumball machine got the pleasure of seeing the giant, anthropomorphic raccoon. "Don?"

The raccoon grinned and extended his arms. "Yeah, it's me! Gimme some sugar!" His brown eyes, that reminded Benson of honey on toast, practically shone. He was pulled into a tight hug, and a feeling of warmth rushed through him. Hugs are nice, Benson decided.

"How's my big bro doing?" Don said as he pulled back.

"He's Rigby." He said, though not in an un-kind way. The mammal laughed.

Benson remembered where they were. He can't be ... inconceivable, he speculated.

"Hey, uh, Don. What ... are you doing here? You're volunteering or something, right?" The effect was immediate, in a sudden, poignant shift his demeanour had become mean and cold, somehow. It was ephemeral, but noticeable. He un-tensed, and lowered his head.

He seemed small, even though he was roughly the same size as Skips. His eyes met Benson's. "Please don't tell Rigbone. Please. I'll... I'll do anything." He pleaded.

Anything? A dark part of his mind questioned. Benson smirked as a sick surge of power jolted through him. As the mammal's eyes glittered with guilt, the gears in his chest quickened their tempo.

Perverse, and overall inappropriate, thoughts flooded his mind. No, this is wrong, he pleaded with himself to stop these all-too-influential ideas.

The machine opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a cheery female voice.

"All right, you guys, listen up!" She smiled, her teeth were too white for her dark skin-tone. "We have a new friend with us today, would you care to introduce yourself, sir?" She's speaking to you, jackass. The voice sounded. Benson gulped. His conscience was speaking to him a lot lately.

He crossed the room to stand beside her. All eyes were on him. Speak, dammit!

"I'm Benson, I'm the manager at the Park in town - the one with the fountain." Exclaimations of 'cool' and 'that's my favourite park!' filled the room. The automaton gushed, enjoying the positive attention.

"Thanks for sharing that with us, Benson!" The woman smiled and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "Please have a seat everyone, so we can begin."

The woman went on, through participatory-type excercises that the machine didn't quite understand.

This group therapy is actually kind of nice, Benson observed. _You just like the attention_. The voice sounded bitter.

"It's time to split up into groups of two and discuss." The woman, Cat, announced. Don, who had eyed him the entire time with a guilty look on his face, was at his side in an instant. The others had paired off and weren't paying much attention to anything other than their partner.

Benson started when he felt two warm - _very_warm - paws enclose around his hands.

"Benson, please." The mammal's tone created an odd stirring in the depths of Benson's stomach._ Well, well, well. Lookee here._His conscience said. He thought he saw a figure floating to his right, but it disappeared when he blinked.

"Benson..." Don's grip had tightened. I haven't even said anything to make him think I'd tell Rigby, Benson complained._ Maybe he just wants to hold your hand_. The voice snickered. The gumballs in his dome turned bubblegum pink for a fraction of a second. Shut up, he told the voice. It laughed in response.

"I wo- how are you going to keep me from telling your big brother, Don? What are you willing to do?"

"I... whatever you want!" Don blushed, humiliated.

Benson's conscience chuckled._ What has gotten into you, Benny?_ What do I say to him now, he panicked. Did I really just say that … What is wrong with me?!_ It's easy to tell where your mind wanders_. The voice cackled. Shut up, Benson directed his thoughts toward it.

"I really didn't mean to say that, Don. I won't tell Rigby." The mammal's posture relaxed, but his paws were still firmly clamped around the automaton's. A small smile graced the raccoon's mouth - Benson was bright pink.

"Uh, Don... you're still-"

"Oh! Sorry." Don unfurled his paws, pulling them back to hang at his sides. The gumball machine in front of him was rubbing the back of his neck, his blush receding.

"Well," Cat, the mediator, began, a wide smile on her face. "it's been great, you guys! I can't wait to see you all next week!"

Benson shuffled out with the crowd, mind devoid of thought. It was dark now, the air crisp and full of possibilities. This was a night to remember - and to forget forever.

"Um, hey, Benson." It was Don again.

"Look, Don, I'm not going to tell Rigby." The raccoon laughed and brought his paws together, wringing them.

"I just wanted to ask if you, um wanted to get something to eat?" His nose is twitching, Benson observed. _Maybe he's nervous_. The voice was weaker now - just a whisper - but his words were perturbing. What are you implying, he demanded._ Just say yes_.

"Yes."

**A/N:** _This is the fourth chapter. Ehh. I'm really sorry that it took so long to update and I'm not really happy with the quality. School has been taking up pretty much all of my time, along with Drama Club and Art Club [I'm the Veep!] What free time I do have is spent watching anime. Heh heh. Anyone else watch Future Diary or Soul Eater?_

_I enjoy reviews, so um, review please! I'd like some constructive criticism if possible. If I'm a person who reviews your story on a regular basis, I will resume this tomorrow. Or, I guess I should say later today._

_Thanks for reading!_

_-Sabrynth_


	6. By Your Side

_**[Malapropos]**_

_**Disclaimer**__: I do not own Regular Show, the characters and ideas of RS are the intellectual property of JG Quintel. The story itself, however, is mine and mine alone._

_**Warning**__: Mature Themes, dark, and a bit angsty ... You've been warned._

_Enjoy..._

_Chapter Five__: By Your Side_

Don grinned.

His smile was wide and infectious, passersby could not help but to return the gesture. His eyes flickered down to look at the gumball machine walking beside him. His smile grew wider. Don wished that it were colder so he would have an excuse to hug Benson. Does he even feel temperature, though, he wondered. The raccoon shrugged. It really was not that important.

"Oh! There it is!" He exclaimed, pointing to a small diner. Benson looked up at him.

"This is the place you were going on and on about?" He sounded unimpressed. On and on about? Oh, no, I'm annoying him, Don worried. He frowned - this was very distressing.

"I'm sorry." The automaton's brow furrowed.

"What for? You didn't do anything." His words threw a switch in Don's mind - once again, he was upbeat and happy.

He smiled in response.

The diner was nothing special, in fact, Don did not even like it. But it had nice atmosphere - much nicer than the coffee shop his big brother visited almost daily. The lighting was dim, almost romantic. He grabbed Benson's hand and pulled him to his favourite booth, in the corner. He forced himself to unfurl his paw and sat down.

"Welcome to Diner, the generic restaurant. We're your source for all your generic restaurant needs." A sullen teenager said, pulling a small waitress-style notebook from her apron.

"The menus are in that metal thing, I'll come back when you've decided what you're eating. What do you want to drink?" She flipped back her black hair, tucking an electric blue streak behind her ear.

"I'll have a Coke, please." Don said, voice sweet.

"Same."

"Cool. Be back in a sec." She shuffled off, her canvas shoes making a 'swish' sound on the linoleum. Benson pulled two menus out, handing one to the raccoon.

"You come here a lot, right? What's good?" Benson asked. He's asking for my opinion, Don gushed.

"The potato soup is good." The automaton nodded, placing his elbows on the table. He rolled his shoulders.

"Yo, figured out what you want?" The girl asked as she sat down the beverages. Her name-tag read: Katrina.

"Yeah, I'll have the potato soup." He ordered what I told him! But what if he doesn't like it, Don fretted.

"Grilled cheese, please."

"Hey, you rhymed! I'll get your stuff to you shortly." Her tone was sarcastic, and Don wondered if the food, would in fact, be out shortly. Benson watched her with detached interest. A faint ringing noise sounded.

"Sorry, I have to get that." Benson said as he produced his cell phone from seemingly nowhere.

"Yeah, it was fine." The automaton paused; Don could hear a female voice.  
"I'm eating with a friend. … Okay. … Yeah. Bye." He set the device on the table.

"Sorry about that." The raccoon nodded and smiled, trying to hide that he was, in fact, fuming. How dare she interrupt us, Don seethed. He clenched his paws together under the table, nails digging into the flesh of his palm. Small buds of blood bloomed on his mitt.

"That, um, I'm not supposed to be alone." Benson said awkwardly, lowering his eyes.

"I was too scared to tell Mom and Dad, so I stayed at a hospital." Don's tone had no inflection.

"I should probably get going soon." Benson said, though he didn't sound too happy about it.  
-

They ate quickly, mostly discussing Rigby and his 'accomplishments' at the Park.  
-

"I'll walk you home after I pay for the food, okay?" The mammal was at the counter before the gumball machine could answer.  
-

After minutes of walking in peaceful silence Benson spoke up.

"Do you live around here?" Don noticed that moonbeams were reflecting off of his dome. He tilted his head and shrugged, he wasn't very good at lying.

"Why are you doing this? You don't have to, you know." The automaton sounded concerned or something akin to that. Don grinned.

"Because you're my friend, of course." It was not a full lie, they were friends – at least Don thought so. Benson looked surprised. He said something not quite audible then smiled up at him.

"This is my stop, thanks for the food and stuff – you didn't have to do that."

"You could always pay me back somehow."

"You could always pay me back somehow."

Benson couldn't help but think that the words sounded suggestive. The voice cackled. It had gotten stronger after he ate._ Suggestive, eh? Are you sure you aren't just hearing things?_ Funny, Benson directed at the voice in an acidic tone._ Don't get pissy with me, Benny_. Its inflection was dark. You'll regret it. Benson rolled his eyes as the voice sang its last sentence. I feel like you should have a name, Benson told it. _Oh, well, aren't you sweet, Benny? Call me... Sanguine_. Sanguine, the gumball machine questioned. Sanguine did not answer.

His apartment was empty, not that the fact was surprising.

Benson sighed.

A faint beep sounded from his bedroom.

"A message? That's odd." He said to himself.

"Meow." He looked down. Jonsey was gnawing on his ankle. The automaton shook his head and continued to the bedroom.

Benson had always thought that his bedroom looked sad. Blue walls, lightwood flooring, a white nightstand with a lonely, out of place lamp, and a bed. A bed much too small to fit more than one person on it. It was desolate. He felt a pang in his chassis.

He pressed a button on the answering machine, then fell back onto his bed.

"Hello, Benson! It's your mother. Remember me? Pick up the phone, sweetie." A pause.

"Benson? Benny? You answer your phone right now, you little shit! Vin_CENT_, your son won't answer his goddamn phone!" A low, baritone voice said, 'Like I give two shits.'

"Thanks, Mom and Dad, I can feel the love." Benson sighed.

"That fruity doctor of yours called and told us about your accident. We're leaving later today, and your sister is coming with us. I swear to God, Benson, if we get there and you have 'mysteriously' disappeared, you're going to be in deep shit. Bye-bye!"

_**A/N: **__Another chapter. Yay. This chapter was weird and I'm sorry that it didn't really move the plot along. I'm not good at transitioning at all, and I apologize. In case you were wondering, and I don't really consider it a spoiler or anything, Don is ... there's something very wrong with him [in *this* fic, for the sake of myself, I guess.] I'm going to make him a yandere. A yandere is a person romantically obsessed with someone to the point of using violent means to get them in their arms. Basically, Don will be thinking Benson is the bee's kness. It isn't going to be gratuitous or anything, not in the way you're probably hoping. Sickos C;_

_also: Sanguine is pronounced, San-gwin, in case you were curious._

Please review, it makes me happy and when I'm happy, I write well! Which is good for everyone.

-Sabrynth


	7. So You're Back From Outer Space

_**[Malapropos]**_

_**Disclaimer**__: I do not own Regular Show, the characters and ideas of RS are the intellectual property of JG Quintel. The story itself, however, is mine and mine alone._

_**Warning**__: Mature Themes, dark, and a bit angsty ... You've been warned._

_Enjoy..._

_Chapter 6__: So You're Back From Outer Space_

Today felt ... right.

Elbows on the window sill, head leaned against the frame, Benson sighed. It was a content sigh. His first in a long time. He wasn't sure what brought it on. Perhaps it was the absence of Sanguine - who, oddly enough, didn't worry the automaton at all - or maybe that creepy owl was actually helping him. His secretary/spy did not check in all that often, only once a day - if that. She had told him, 'I'm not all that worried about you, Benson. I believe splattering yourself onto the concrete is the last thing on your mind right now.'

All in all, Benson felt good today. The sky was clear, Maellard hadn't spoken to him in a whole month, group therapy was surprisingly nice, and he had a friend who was going through the same thing he was. In addition to this, it had been a week since the *lovely* phone call from his parents and they still hadn't shown up yet.

A harsh banging on the door to his apartment jerked him out of his thoughts. Benson's anger flared as the ruckus continued. Grabbing the ledge of the window pane, he slammed it down, creating several large cracks in the glass. The gumball machine growled.

"BENSON!" He heard the blood-curdling screech of his mother.

Benson felt like vomiting. Each step toward the door made him even queasier - there was a reason why he moved as far away from his parents as possible. He inhaled and opened the door.

There they were.

His mother, father, and sister.

The perfect picture of dysfunction and passive aggressive bullshit.

Benson clenched his hands into fists.

"Well? Don't just stand there! Invite us in, Benny. It's the least you can do, I mean, goddamn, you haven't spoken to us in nearly two years!"

Benson wasn't sure how he felt about his mother, but he assumed that it was love. You had to love your mom, right? No matter how much she pissed you off.

"Um, yeah. Right. Come in." His voice was quiet and strained. He had to remain calm.

"Benson, m'boy!" His father called out, slapping a hand on his son's shoulder. He smells like a bar, I guess he hasn't changed much, Benson observed with disappointment.

"Hey, Dad. How are you?"

"Oh, I see how you are! You've always liked your father more." His mother huffed. It was all he could do to not roll his eyes.

"Ma, why do ya do this? Every-fuckin'-time ya see Ben, ya make'im choose between you guys." The heavily accented voice of his sister filled the air. She sounded like a true Brooklyn-ite. Except they weren't from that area.

She stepped into the apartment. She must've had a paint-job, Benson noted. His sister was now a sparkly, metallic gold instead of the trademark red that their family was known for.

"'Sup, Ben?" She asked him. Benson hooked an arm around his older sister - who he was finally taller than.

"What's with the new paint-job, Brie? Who are you tryin' to impress?" He teased. The gumballs in her dome turned a violent red.

"Fuck you, little bro." Brie's tone could kill. But Benson was used to it. He himself used it on Mordecai & Rigby. The automaton detached himself from her and went to the small, one-windowed kitchen.

His mother, who was inspecting the living room, demanded, "Where are you going?"

"Do you want anything to drink?" Benson covered with a sweet tone, attempting to diffuse his mother's ... eccentricities.

"I'll have some tea."

"Me too!" Brie chimed.

"Got any beer?" His father's voice was muffled by the refrigerator. That's where he went, Benson sighed.

"No, I don't, Dad. I have soda." He tried. His father faced him, greying moustache twitching with annoyance. The patriarch sighed.

"Well, I'll take a Coke, then." He said, pulling a flask from thin air.

"Oh...kay, then."

"So, Ben..." Brie poked at her younger brother while he made the tea.

"Hm?"

"Got a girlfriend? Or maybe a guy? That yeti who works for ya... Mmm." Benson felt his face heat up as his sister wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"No, I don't."

"Well, what about that girl? Abby or somethin'."

"Audrey." Benson sighed.

"Yeah, her! Did y'all hook it up?" Brie sounded genuinely excited.

"Things didn't... work out. After two months of dating she just left. No note, no anything. I doubt she's still in the city." She let out a squeal.

"I bet she works for the gov'ment or the mafia or somethin'! She's probably on a secret mission filled with really hot guys, but she won't sleep with 'em because of you!" She spouted dramatically.

"I'm sure." Brie either didn't notice or didn't care about the sarcasm.

"Was she special to you?" Her voice was low and caring. It was times like this that made Benson love his sister.

"I think she had the potential to be."

"I thought you would have a family by now, Benny." His mother prodded with a disappointed tone. "Or at least a nicer place to live." She continued.

"Ma, please don't start with this again." I like my apartment, he added silently.

"You're getting to the age where you need to settle down and start a family."

"We're gumball machines, Ma, we don't age after thirty. Unless you count grey hair - or lack of it." He complained. The automaton leaned back on the couch.

"Well, you don't look that bad without hair, dear. I like this," She gestured to his head, "much more than that sloppy braid you had."

Something inside Benson snapped.

Vincent, who had been watching a cooking show, shut off Benson's tiny television set and appeared beside his wife. Even when he was drunk, the patriarch could sense when his beloved had done something incredibly stupid.

"It's been nice seeing you, Benson, m'boy, but I'm afraid we have to get back to the hotel. We'll see you tomorrow. BRIE! LEAVING!" Vincent was more or less talking to the air. His son's eyes had dulled and the purple gumballs in his translucent skull were turning red.

The trio departed with record speed, closing the door behind them.

He could hear Dave's voice.

He could see his young, carefree face.

He could smell that citrus scent that defined him.

He could hear his screams of 'Master!' as his head was popped off of his body. Red, orange, and yellow gumballs leaking from his head.

He could smell the motor oil as it leaked from his decapitated body.

He could see the pain in his once joyful eyes.

Tears, thick and viscous, ran down his face.

He screamed 'Dave' over and over again, beating the couch - and nearly breaking it.

His mother's words rang loudly in his head.

He stood up, stomping his feet like an upset child.

Benson was livid.

He would have yelled, screamed, shrieked - anything to decrease his steadily escalating rage. But he was now long past the ability to speak.

He brought his hands to his glassen* dome. And gripped. Fingers digging, piercing the shiny surface. He rage did not subside. He applied more and more pressure. Tiny, hair-like cracks created an intricate, star-like pattern on his skull.

The automaton fell to his knees, a sharp, shooting pain coursing through his limbs. The roaring in his head increased - if that were even possible - and his hearing was cottony and muffled.

He tried to focus, but it was no use. The gumballs in his skull boiled with anger.

Benson squeezed harder until a sharp crack was heard.

Suddenly all the pain and anger was gone, leaving a euphoric stillness.

He breathed.

He could see his best friend's face smiling at him.

"Dave..."

Benson passed out.

"It's cold." Benson mumbled to himself.

"Good, you're awake." Sanguine's voice echoed.

"I never realized I had such an active imagination." Benson groaned. He opened his eyes slowly. I'm in ... the tub? He asked himself. The automaton swiveled his head, noting that the bathtub was full of towels.

"What...?"

Sanguine chuckled.

"After your little tantrum, I decided to move you to the tub. Your dome isn't broken, by the way. Just cracked." Benson sat up and looked toward the door.

"What the fuck? You aren't real!"

There he was, Benson's supposed conscience, leaning against the wall. He looked like Benson, except he had brown irises around his pupils and shaggy, black hair that reached the middle of his skull.

"I'm afraid I am." Sanguine's voice was calm and almost taunting.

"But... I mean, how?" Benson's voice was quavering, he already had enough things to worry about and now he was apparently a schizo.

"No, you aren't." Sanguine crouched next to the tub, his face was inches from Benson's. The figment pursed his lips and blew. The automaton felt motor oil rise like bile in his throat.

He felt it.

Bullshit.

_**A/N:**__ Sorry that it took sooo long to update. I don't have an excuse... but when do I ever? Things in Malapropos are gonna get waaay heavy from this point on! Buckle up your saftey-belts and step out towards the ledge._

_If you like my fic and would like to read something that is actually completed, you should check out Regular Sorrow by BlakeyBoy! It's written really well, and the action is fantastic. You should review his story since I never seem to get the chance to read it. (sigh)_

_*glassen is not an actual word, but I liked it so much that I kept it in there_

_I love Sicely-chan so much ^-^ she's so awesome!_

_Review, would you kindly?_

_-Sabrynth_


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